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Dad died today. Suicide. The family's great affliction. Mother phoned… - malachite cursive [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
malachite cursive

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[Apr. 10th, 2005|08:27 pm]
malachite cursive
Dad died today. Suicide. The family's great affliction. Mother phoned to tell me. She said that there had been signs. For weeks now. Well why hadn't I heard about it? No calls, no letters, nothing for a month. We didn't speak for long, Mum and me, I mean. She had things to do, relatives to call, that sort of thing. Naturally, my first impulse was to cry, but I found I couldn't. Dad and I were close, I guess, I suppose I should've noticed something. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared for a long timre at my books, not taking in titles or authors, just unevennesses in the way they were leaning, the gradations of colour in the spines. I must've sat like that for an hour or more and the only thought in my head was how nice it would be for me to shelve them by colour and the logistics of such a move. The problem would be the noticeable abundance of white or off-white. I am guessing that I would spend more time sorting out the subtle differences between magnolia and pearl than in ordering the rest of the collection! There would also be a riot of Penguin-brand orange in the middle somewhere which I think would look quite gaudy, too loud for my quiet shelves. Better that they stay as they are, I think, periods and topics all jumbled up, no discernable continuity, a better reflection of how I think about them, anyway.

My thoughts were interrupted by Adam calling, I was already twenty minutes late for our meeting. I raised myself and dressed hastily, so hastily, in fact, that I neglected to bring an umbrella out with me and was caught in a rather heavy drizzle, the kind that comes at from all angles. By the time I got to the river, though, the rain had subsided and the slightest, just the faintest hint of a rainbow arced over the city that fell away beneath me and I cried just a little, making me even later. For you dad, though, for you.

Despite my best efforts, Adam - sat reading, of all things, Kerouac, and drinking a coffee at our usual table - noticed the redness of my eyes and aksed what was wrong. I told him about the books, but not about dad, I found that I just couldn't, not even to him. He was kind and said that I had the nausea, after Sartre, which I must admit it was reminiscent of. Adam has a habit of relating everyone's anecdotes back to literary or historical precedence. On anyone else it would seem grating, even pretentious, but he manages in such a charming, deprecating way that he gets away with it every time. He cheered me up a little, he has ways of making problems, not trivial, but much less of a burden. I guess that's why I couldn't tell him about dad, it would have compromised his position - you can't just laugh that off. The journal is Adam's idea, by the way, he said it would be a good idea for me to write, to relate, but to do it in a public forum so that my excesses might be tempered in the name of legibility, to make me more aware of the sound, the impact of what I'm writing. I said I would try it, on the condition that he would never read it, which he agreed to. I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea, but this is how it begins. Don't be too surprised if, as a reader, one day you click this journal to find that it's all disappeared again and I've retreated back to secrecy, anonymity.
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